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Life Sentences: A Novel
Life Sentences: A Novel
Life Sentences: A Novel
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Life Sentences: A Novel

Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars

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“From its gripping opening pages…Life Sentences may be the most absorbing, entertaining mystery published in the last year.”

Boston Globe

 

USA Today calls Laura Lippman, “A writing powerhouse,” and Life Sentences powerfully confirms it. Past and present, truth and memory collide in this searing novel from a New York Times bestselling author whose novels have won virtually every major prize bestowed for  crime fiction—from the Edgar® to the Anthony to the Agatha to the Nero Wolfe Award. As she did in her blockbuster What the Dead Know, Lippman takes a brief hiatus from her popular series character, Baltimore p.i. Tess Monaghan, to tell a riveting story of deceptions and dangerously fragile truths that People magazine says, “Succeeds brilliantly.”

LanguageEnglish
PublisherHarperCollins
Release dateOct 6, 2009
ISBN9780061971365
Life Sentences: A Novel
Author

Laura Lippman

Laura Lippman is a New York Times bestselling novelist. She has been awarded the Edgar, the Anthony, the Agatha, the Shamus, the Nero Wolfe, Gumshoe and Barry awards. For more information about Laura visit www.lauralippman.com

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Rating: 3.2829181494661923 out of 5 stars
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  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Some childhood events are so remarkable (or horrific) that they can dramatically impact the self-image of the adult that child will become. But what most forget is that, whatever the experience, they were children when the events happened, and they experienced them through the eyes and perceptions of children. So what happens if what they remember is not the way it really happened? Whose fault is it? Cassandra Fallows is about to find out.Cassandra grew up in one of Baltimore's more racially mixed neighborhoods where her best friends Donna, Tisha, and Fatima, were all black. Calliope Jenkins, another little girl, also black, tried to make her own way into their inner circle but was only grudgingly accepted now and then. Now the girls have largely gone their separate ways and Cassandra has not seen any of them for years. This, however, has not kept her from using her childhood memories to earn her living.Cassandra's two memoirs have, in fact, earned her a very nice living and she has every reason to believe that the royalty checks will keep coming for a long time. Her frank willingness to expose herself and anyone who has ever impacted her life to public scrutiny has made the books long-term bestsellers. Perhaps overconfident, Cassandra decided to turn her pen toward her first novel - with, at best, mediocre results. Now she and her publisher agree that Cassandra needs a new memoir, one with a fresh hook - and Cassandra believes that the little girl who wanted to be part of her crowd all those years ago can provide the hook she needs. Calliope Jenkins spent seven years in jail for contempt of court, accused of killing her infant son but refusing, the whole time, to answer a single question regarding the whereabouts of the boy. Finally, the court was forced to release her even though the mystery has never been solved. Cassandra, believing she has found her next bestseller, is back in Baltimore where she hopes to shake things up enough to get at the truth of what happened to the baby boy. But if she thinks it will be easy, she is in for a big surprise. None of her old friends are happy to see her, Calliope Jenkins is nowhere to be found, and what she is about to learn about herself might just turn her bestselling memoirs into works of fiction.Bottom Line: Life Sentences, based on a real life incident in Baltimore, is an interesting mystery but, as usual in a Laura Lippman novel, the real fun comes from immersing oneself in the relationships between the book's intriguing characters. Lippman fans will not be disappointed in this 2009 novel.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    This one snuck up on me.This is another author who has a series that I like who's now writing her second standalone. I'll confess that I really hated the first one, What the Dead Know, & actually couldn't get through it which is rare for me - so I approached this book with some trepidation.The start is slow, but the story & the women in it really do creep up on you, get under your skin, make you keep reading. Add to that all the thinking I ended up doing about memoirs & the nature of memory & this was a really good read. The point is a simple one - that essentially all books based on memory are in some way fictionalized because we only really know our own side of the story - but it's well made & done so without beating you over the head. I thoroughly enjoyed this book
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Cassandra Fallows, the gifted daughter of a classics professor and his equally intelligent wife, has used the lives of her and her family for fodder in her first two books and seeks to recapture the public's adoration by getting to the bottom of the tragic circumstances of her childhood friend Callie's life. As a child, Callie was on the outskirts of Cassandra's group, always very quiet and shy. But in more recent times, Callie's son has mysteriously gone missing. Callie, refusing to incriminate herself, remains silent on the question of her son's whereabouts and eventually has to serve seven years in prison for her silence. When Cassandra catches wind of the woman's story, she begins to pursue Callie and those who knew her, hoping to uncover the secret that Callie has kept hidden for years. As Cassandra begins to investigate the strange story, she reaches out to the friends she remembers from childhood, only to discover that they are unhappy and sometimes even hostile about their shared past. Each woman contacted has a different grudge against Cassandra and none are willing to furnish the information that she is seeking. Under the guise of camaraderie, Cassandra tries to put the women at ease but discovers that her memories from the past aren't what she remembers them to be, and also discovers the secret that binds all of the women together. Written with literary flourish, Life Sentences tells the story of a group of women whom time has torn asunder.When I was contacted to review this book by TLC Book Tours, I wasn't exactly sure what I was getting into. On the surface, the story seemed to be a literary one but I couldn't help but glean that it may actually be more of a suspense story, which is not exactly my favorite genre. But after getting sufficiently involved in the narrative, I was pleased to discover that the book actually grabbed elements from many different genres.From the outset, I felt that I really understood Cassandra. Maybe it's because I am a bookish person by nature, but I felt that as a character, Cassandra was interesting to me for many reasons. One of the reasons, of course, was that she was an author. It was interesting to see how she mined her life and the lives of her acquaintances for fodder for her books and it seemed she was always looking for the literary bottom line in all of her encounters. Another reason her character was so compelling was that she was refreshingly honest about her life and her opinions of others. She didn't try to candy-coat all the unpleasant aspects of her personality or those around her. But for all this, I didn't really like her. She was very wily when it came to the other characters in the book and her motives were always suspect to me. Watching her maneuver through her friends' lives and secrets made me a little uncomfortable, and at best she came off as a bit of an opportunist. She was at times very manipulative, poking and prodding those around her for her own gain. I guess that was why I was a little conflicted when she got her comeuppance. I felt in some ways she deserved to be knocked down, yet in others I felt more than a little sorry for her. She was both a very pleasing and utterly contemptible person to me at times.Callie's portion of the narrative was, I think, a real highlight for me. I marveled at her ability to remain stanch throuought the book and I really liked her sense of fierce independence. When she finally reveals what happened to her son in the last half of the book, it was hard not to judge her a little bit, but it was also hard not to sympathize with her as well. I liked the frankness of her life, her ability to move on past tragedy and keep herself upright for many long years, just as I admired her for finally getting her story out. Though Cassandra originally wanted to glean Callie's story for her own purposes, I think she ended up having a very positive effect on Callie, and it was through her intervention that the woman was able to reclaim part of her life. There was a great sense of vindication for me when Callie finally revealed her secret.I also thought that the dynamics of Cassandra's friendship with the other women were well written and provided a lot of tension throughout the story. The other women never really thought of Cassandra as one of them but Cassandra never saw this. She saw only through the rose colored glasses of her past and assumed that their friendship would afford her some liberties among them. She never really saw that the the women only tolerated her and that she was far more out of their circle than in. I guess it would have been fair to say that Callie was more inclusive to the group than Cassandra had been. Each of the three other women begrudged Cassandra for her success, believing her to have rewritten their shared history for her glory. It wasn't really a surprise to me that they closed ranks upon her but it certainly came as a surprise to Cassandra. I got the picture that Cassandra saw only what she wanted to see, not what was actually in front of her.Towards the end of the book the story took a turn for the suspenseful, which although not my favorite genre, was, I felt, well deserved. As the women begin to slowly leak the unfortunate story of Callie's tragedy to Cassandra, the plot began to move and weave in ways I never saw coming. The secrets that had been hidden begin to come to light, and all the people that Cassandra had carefully canvassed become unmoored and careless with their stories. It was interesting to see who held information and to what lengths they would go to keep it buried. Finally the players begin to turn upon each other, leaving old notions and ideas shattered in their wake. The stunning conclusion to the story left me feeling very satisfied and I marveled at the author's ability to keep so many intertwined events clear and relevant.Overall, I found this book a really pleasant diversion that was able to make me feel an abundance of conflicting emotions and anticipation. The very literary quality of the writing combined with the elements of suspense and interpersonal relationships within the story made for a great reading experience. I think that readers who like a good dose of realism in their fiction would probably enjoy this book, as well as those who normally gravitate towards mildly suspenseful reads. I think that Lippman did a fantastic job cobbling all of these various elements together in her story and I would definitely recommend this book. It was a highly entertaining read.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    For me, Laura Lippman never disappoints and I found LIFE SENTENCES absorbing especiallyconcerning the memories of our own lives to which we religiously cling even though theymay be completely wrong. Cassandra, after writing two best selling memoirs, has "failed" in writing fiction. Then she discovers that others who were "present" in her memoirs don't see the same incidents in the same way and also that the very "lynchpin" of her first book was completely wrong. This is a book with many layers and, for me, an outstanding example of this talented writer's work.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Cassandra Fallows is casting around for her next book idea after having published two highly successful memoirs and one floundering novel, when an evening newscast brings up a name from her past. Calliope Jenkins had shared an elementary school classroom with Cassandra. She was later held for seven years in prison for refusing to reveal the whereabouts of her infant son…who is still missing and presumed dead. Now released from prison, Calliope provides the perfect backdrop for another memoir of sorts for Cassandra. Cassandra returns to her childhood home in Baltimore to try to get to the bottom of the mystery surrounding Calliope and her son, and ends up reconnecting with her old friends. What she discovers are buried secrets about her own life, and another perspective on what constitutes truth.Laura Lippman takes her time in developing her characters in Life Sentences, switching back and forth from the past to the present, and giving the reader multiple perspectives of Cassandra’s life. Cassandra is not wholly likable (she has a tendency to go to bed with other women’s husbands and seems oblivious to how her literary portrayal of the people in her life might impact them) yet I found myself wanting to give her a chance at redemption. Part of the conflict in the novel is internal – that which lies within Cassandra herself. Although her goal was to write a book and not rethink her life, Cassandra ultimately is forced to deal with her own weaknesses, learn another way of seeing the world, and revisit her version of the truth.Lippman apparently used to write straight forward mysteries and suspense novels, but in Life Sentences the mystery takes second stage to the deeper issues raised in the book. Using the historical backdrop of the civil rights movement in Baltimore and the assassination of Martin Luther King, Lippman explores the difficult subject of race relations. Cassandra’s unfaithful father leaves her mother to marry a black woman. Cassandra’s childhood friends are all black (she is white) and the division between them (and their later anger around Cassandra’s memoir) centers largely around unspoken race issues. One huge event in Cassandra’s life (when she is attacked by a group of white girls in her school) takes on a different meaning when seen outside of Cassandra’s narrow view and is explained from the viewpoint of a black friend who witnessed the attack but did nothing to stop it.Another huge theme in the book is that of memory and perspective – how two people can experience the same thing and yet remember it differently. As Cassandra tries to mine her past for her next book, she discovers her memories about important events vary significantly from that of her friends.Ultimately Lippman gets to the mystery and provides an answer for her readers, but she arrives there after a meandering journey through the lives of her central characters. And that is perhaps my only complaint with the novel – it moves a bit slowly at times. This is not a book a reader will plow through in one sitting. Despite this minor complaint, I can recommend Life Sentences to those readers who enjoy their mysteries character-driven vs. plot driven.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Deeply satisfying novel with heavy mystery elements concerning memory an the act of writing, father/daughter relationships, childhood friendships and race relations in Baltimore.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Interesting, but not my thing. Only got as far as I did because it was about a writer and there was a lot of trade talk and random writer life tidbits.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I had read several favorable reviews in national publications and thought this would be one I couldn't put down. As it turns out, I could, I thought the book was pretty average in terms of plot and writing. The main character is looking back at her childhood through much of the book and I found her ability to remember so many events and conversations from childhood unlikely. It's not a bad read but not one I would recommend to people who have lots in their TBR stack.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Cassandra Fallows, author of two memoirs and one novel, travels back to her Baltimore neighbourhood to research her new book. Her first memoir centred around the lives of her middle class white family and that of her three best friends who are black and of mixed financial backgrounds. There was a fifth black girl on the outskirts of her group of friends whom Cassie never really paid any attention to but it has just now been revealed to her that this girl was questioned in the death of her infant son and then spent seven years in jail for contempt for pleading the fifth and has never uttered one word about her missing, presumed murdered son. This is what Cassie wants to base her new book on and as she travels home she finds that no one from the past wants to talk about that incident. It seems she has come to uncover a secret so big that many people have been silenced for what very little they do know and no one wants to open those doors again. But while unraveling other families secrets Cassie finds herself face to face with a secret from her very own family's past which she has not known of and must face before she can face anyone else's secrets.I really enjoyed this book. I've read one other Lippman book and it was not a stand-alone as this one is. I had expected this to be a mystery but, in fact, I would not classify it as such, nor would I call it a thriller, crime or even a suspense. It is much more akin to what I think of as Southern Fiction (with the eccentric characters and the race relations) but being set in Baltimore takes that option away. What we have here is really non-genre fiction. A story of people, a select group of people, and how a secret affected their lives.Lippman is wonderful at characterization. There is a big company of players in this book and the main characters are fleshed out, fully realized with full backgrounds and flawed human beings. The secondary characters are less developed but they certainly consist of an eccentric cast. While the plot mainly focuses on Cassandra and her life and relationship with her parents and friends from the past, often including passages from her published book of memoirs, the tracking down of the girl who grew up to possibly kill her own son forms a cohesive plot that pulls the whole together and gives an enjoyable mystery to solve with a satisfying ending, for this reader. But other readers looking for a traditional mystery may not find the ending quite so satisfying. Not having read many Lippman books I can't say whether this book is typical or not of her stand-alones but if you are looking for a traditional mystery/thriller/crime book this is not the book you are looking for. However, if you are looking for a compelling read with an intriguing plot that includes a secret to unravel then by all means you'll have found your book with Life Sentences.P.S. I can't help but mention that I just love the cover of my edition!
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Here's how the publisher describes this novel:Author Cassandra Fallows has achieved remarkable success by baring her life on the page. Her two widely popular memoirs continue to sell briskly, acclaimed for their brutal, unexpurgated candor about friends, family, lovers—and herself. But now, after a singularly unsuccessful stab at fiction, Cassandra believes she may have found the story that will enable her triumphant return to nonfiction.When Cassandra was a girl, growing up in a racially diverse middle-class neighborhood in Baltimore, her best friends were all black: elegant, privileged Donna; sharp, shrewd Tisha; wild and worldly Fatima. A fifth girl orbited their world—a shy, quiet, unobtrusive child named Calliope Jenkins—who, years later, would be accused of killing her infant son. Yet the boy's body was never found and Calliope's unrelenting silence on the subject forced a judge to jail her for contempt. For seven years, Calliope refused to speak and the court was finally forced to let her go. Cassandra believes this still unsolved real-life mystery, largely unknown outside Baltimore, could be her next bestseller.But her homecoming and latest journey into the past will not be welcomed by everyone, especially by her former friends, who are unimpressed with Cassandra's success—and are insistent on their own version of their shared history. And by delving too deeply into Calliope's dark secrets, Cassandra may inadvertently unearth a few of her own—forcing her to reexamine the memories she holds most precious, as the stark light of truth illuminates a mother's pain, a father's betrayal . . . and what really transpired on a terrible day that changed not only a family but an entire country.My thoughts:This novel featured narration by a variety of characters, but predominantly our protagonist, Cassandra Fallows, narrated. As a reader, I did not feel a connection with her. She's wonderfully articulate, introspective, and thoughtful, but I didn't find her interesting or lovable. I found the so-called mystery to be interesting enough to finish the book, but not interesting enough to make me care what happens to these characters. I expected this novel to be mostly a mystery, but I found it to be mostly about race relations surrounding the shooting of Martin Luther King, Jr. and how his death affected these characters. As a tale of race relations, it was awkward at times. It's not a bad book, but there is something about it that does not quite work. It's certainly better in theory than in practice. The idea of this book is riveting and fascinating, but the execution fell short. Still, I'm eager to read Laura Lippman's other books. She is a good writer, and I look forward to reading an actual mystery.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Like other books by Laura Lippman, Life Sentences is a "psychological thriller". But this book is far more "psychological" than "thriller", and I didn't enjoy it nearly as much. The plot sounds interesting: an author's childhood friends was jailed for 7 years for contempt of court, for refusing to reveal information about her missing childhood son. But it was actually a pretty slow, tame story. The "psychological" aspect is far stronger, with themes of differing perspectives, flawed memories, and racial influences. All in all, it was an okay read, but not one I'd recommend strongly.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    A memoirist with writer's block decides to write a non-fiction
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Author Cassandra Fallows, with two successful memoirs behind her, tries her hand at fiction, which falls flat. When Cassandra reads about a former school friend jailed for contempt for not revealing the whereabouts of her baby’s body, Cassandra gets the idea to write about her childhood and her friends, and the events that lead them to their present-day lives. She returns to Baltimore to interview her family and friends, only to be met with resistance. Calliope Jenkins, the woman accused of murdering her baby and hiding his body, has disappeared and no one wants to talk about where she is or what happened. As Cassandra digs deeper into the past, painful truths about her own life and those of her friends are revealed which could impact their lives in a negative way if disclosed.Laura Lippman, known for the Tess Monaghan series, is adroit at character development, slowly peeling away layers of persona as the book progresses. Life Sentences is a compelling read, exploring the dynamics of childhood friendships and family relationships.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I've read and enjoyed some of Lippman's other books, but this one just didn't gel for me. I didn't particularly like the main charadcters, and there was one plot point I never did understand.The book is set in Baltimore like most of Lippman's work. The main character is Cassandra, who is, as might be guessed from the name, the daughter of a professor. She was a daddy's girl, but Daddy left when she was 10. As an adult, Cassandra has written best-selling volumes of memoirs, and thinks there might be another book in the story of her and her classmates, one of whom later spent sever years in prison after her baby son disappeared.Lippman is a good writer, but even good writers can occasionally produce a lesser work.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Cassandra Fallows has written two successful memoirs and is thinking of writing a book of fiction next. When she hears the name Calliope Jenkins on the news, she thinks it must be the same woman she knew as a girl. Memories start to wash over Cassandra. This is when she decides to do her next book on Callie, as she and three others in her group called Calliope. Calliope’s name was in the news because like a current case in New Orleans, she pled the Fifth more than twenty years ago, when she would not disclose the whereabouts of her son. Although, no body was ever found, nor would Callie say anything else, she spent seven years in jail. Cassandra wants to talk to Callie and get her story, along with the stories of the other three girls they both knew. Cassandra tries contacting the prosecuting attorney and the detective in the case. Unfortunately, this takes a lot of digging because no one will reveal where Callie is and no one seems to want to talk about the case or even their youth. When she does talk to the three other women she knew as a girl, it seems their memories don’t jive with what Cassandra wrote in her memoirs . She starts to question her own memories and the motives of the people involved. Through persistence Cassandra starts to put the pieces of the puzzle in order. Throughout the story there are some intriguing concurrent sub plots going on. Cassandra’s parents are divorced and he is remarried. Her father played a big part in Cassandra's memoirs but it turns out she based her memories on false information. Most of the main characters have their own life dramas going on which does make for interesting reading. I will say Lippman does a great job of fleshing out her characters, particularly the detective and the lawyer. Her location descriptions are also excellent. This is not your typical mystery. I felt like I was reading background material for a good part of the book when it dawned on me, this IS the book. It’s more of a character study than a traditional mystery. Maybe I was expecting something different than this format or something more from this author. Not sure. Even though I have never read Lippman’s work before, I have read gushing reviews about her mysteries. There is a real twist to the ending that I didn’t see coming. The last twenty pages tie it all up rather neatly and most of the misconceptions and unknowns are revealed. Overall, I did like the book even though I felt that I was waiting for something more to actually happen. 3.5***
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Like some of the other reviewers, I found this book a bit tedious. It did not hold my interest and perhaps my expectations of a thriller were too high. Still , Ms Lippman is a very good writer and perhaps I will try "What the Dead know" .
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    With two highly successful memoirs under her belt author Cassandra Fallows latest work of fiction falls flat. Knowing that there is nothing else in her life to write about she is left contemplating her next step as a writer when she hears a news story that she believes could be the subject of her next non-fiction bestseller. In New Orleans a child has disappeared and his mother refuses to tell anyone what happened to him. The news story compares this case to a case in Baltimore where Calliope Jenkins once spent seven years in prison for failing to reveal what happened to her missing infant son. As it turns out Cassandra and Callie where once friends beginning when they met elementary school along with a group of girls including Donna, Tisha and Fatima. Returning home to Baltimore to investigate the story Cassandra faces resentment and bitterness from Tisha, Donna and Fatima each for a different reason but all of it having to do with her first successful memoir and Cassandra's recounting of their experiences. Finding Callie and learning the truth about what happened all those years ago is a lot tougher than she originally thought but she's determined to make it happen. I was hoping for more of a mystery read similar to What the Dead Know but Life Sentences is more a book about relationships and dealing with memories than it is a suspense story. It takes a long look at family interactions, racial issues, friendship bonds and how each are dealt with by different characters in the story. I enjoyed the book overall but was a little disappointed by the ending. The book was about 2/3 complete before Callie's story starts to be told and by the time the truth about her missing son is revealed it's more of a let down than a satisfying ending. I recommend it more for general fiction readers than suspense lovers.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Laura Lippman's "Life Sentences" explores concepts of truth, memory and lies as bestselling memoirist Cassandra returns to her Baltimore home and lands knee-deep in her own past, about which she has written much and understood little. The chance overhearing of a news broadcast mentioning the long-ago case of one of Cassandra's girlhood acquaintances, sent to jail for the death of her infant son, sends Cassandra -- who knows a good source of income when it sticks to her Manolos -- scrambling to find Calliope Jenkins. Some of the characters introduced along the way are finely portrayed, making Cassandra herself an even less appealing figure. That and my inability to believe that the fictional memoir excerpted between chapters would actually sell enough copies to make Cassandra a wealthy woman leads to the rather wan three-star rating.Still, the deceptively simple title, with its many layers and the underlying question of the book -- what gives someone the right to tell a story that can never be about just one person? -- provided enough pondering to keep me going until the somewhat hurried and not the least bit convincing end.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    view all 4 status updates review: Some people look forward to the budding trees and warmer days when winter finally rolls around into spring. I look forward to the latest offering by Laura Lippman. As always with Lippman's novels, I found myself both eager to begin the journey and anxious that the ride would be over far too soon. The best thing you can say about a book is that it never feels too short nor does it overstay its welcome. And that's a praise I can heap on a lot of Lippman's novels. Cassa...more Some people look forward to the budding trees and warmer days when winter finally rolls around into spring. I look forward to the latest offering by Laura Lippman. As always with Lippman's novels, I found myself both eager to begin the journey and anxious that the ride would be over far too soon. The best thing you can say about a book is that it never feels too short nor does it overstay its welcome. And that's a praise I can heap on a lot of Lippman's novels. Cassandra Fellows is a successful non-fiction writer, who wrote two staggeringly successful memoirs about her life. One was about growing up in Baltimore and the other was about her various romantic liasons. Now Cassandra is on a book tour for his latest, fictional entry which is neither as critically acclaimed nor as commercially successful as her two autobiographical tomes. One night in a hotel room, cursed with insomnia, Cassandra hears the report of a missing boy in Louisiana and hears it linked to a case in Baltimore years before. The case involved a classmate of Cassandra's, Calliope Jenkins, whose first child was removed from the home by the authorities and her second child disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Calliope never confessed to a crime and was notoriously silent about where the child went. With little evidence, Calliope was held in jail for seven years before being released. Cassandra grew up with Calliope and decides that her next project will be an examination of not only Calliope, but their social group growing up, looking to find some answers to the unsolved crime. In typical Lippman fashion, the central mystery to the novel is important but it isn't the most vital part of "Life Sentences." Lippman once again examines the impact of a crime or a criminal act can have on the various lives that it touches--from that of Calliope Jenkins to Cassandra to the various people investigating the case or defending Jenkins. Lippman hooks you in right away with the central mystery and with great care and deliberation introduces the various players into the drama. Each character is facing his or her own life sentence based on choices he or she has made over the course of their lives. Lippman also examines how the various characters filter history through their own vantage point and how subjective events and memories can be. To say more would be to give away some of the more intriguing revelations in the story. And that last thing you want is for someone to ruin the joy of finding these things out for yourself. I've heard it said that Lippman writes mysteries that transcend the genre. I'd argue that while she does that, her novels are far more complex and rewarding than just a simple "who done it?" story. These are carefully crafted, psychological portraits of the impact of various events can have on the its characters. "Life Sentences" is another winner from Lippman and a novel I heartly recommend to anyone who enjoys a well-written, thought-provoking and enjoyable story
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I was unfortunately not blown away by this book as I hoped I might be. This was the first Laura Lippman book I've ever read. I found myself being drawn in part of the time, then found myself getting bored, or feeling a bit lost in the midst of it all. It seemed to have alot of different things going on at once and I felt slightly discombobulated several times throughout the book.The story revolves around an author who decides to write a book about a woman she knew as a child, who spent 7 years in prison for murdering her child, and as Cassandra, the author, did her research, she finds out the "truth" regarding the woman's case.This one just didn't do it for me. I'll try one of the author's other books at a later date....I won't give up on her yet.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    To me, Life Sentences was a strong 4 star book bogged down by trappings that didn't work for me.I really liked that plot and the main character.The mystery was interesting and (mostly) well plotted and revealed. The question is whether Cassandra's childhood friend Calliope really killed her child, and if so, why? I've read several books recently featuring writers as characters, and I've been enjoying them. Cassandra is no exception. I enjoyed her reflections on her past, present and future and how they interrelate. Her approach to investigation also worked well for me in the story.The other characters were overall a neutral for me. They were at times compelling and at others overdrawn. In general they didn't pull me out the story, and so I can forgive them many flaws.The problems I had with the book had to do with the delivery. It felt to me there was an effort to be Literary, and it distracted from the story.A prime example of this was the wandering point of view. When done well, I like when I'm shown what different characters are thinking and feeling about the events in a book. I did like that aspect of this book, although I sometimes had to pull myself out of the story to figure out who a particular chapter was focusing on. What I didn't get were the shifts between first and third person. I'm left with the feeling that I should go back and figure out why the POV shifted when it did, and what it meant. When reading, I found it distracted me from the story.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Life Sentences focuses on author Cassandra Fallow's quest for the subject of her new book. An old school mate of Cassandra's, Calliope Jenkins is accused of murdering her son but will not speak about it to anyone. The book delves into how paths diverge and the way memory is often like a prism with different versions apprearing with different perspectives. I thought the book was well written and entertaining enough to make me want to finish it but I could not empathize with the main character. I disliked her and found her to be selfish and entitled. I did not like her father and found him the same, but maybe that was the point. To look at the characters and see in them their flaws.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    Synopsis:Cassandra Fallows has had two memoirs and one novel published. Not everyone is happy about her memoirs, although they did very well, because they don't think she remembers correctly. The novel wasn't a smashing success. Now she wants to write about a girl who was in their class; she was accused of killing her baby, but wouldn't say a word about what happened. No one could ever prove what actually happened. Cassandra finds that her memories were not, in fact, the truth. She also finds that the murder mystery brings up much more, including blackmail.Review: The largest part of the book is 'memories' and has do little to with a mystery. Most of the book is boring.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    I read this book in the hopes that it could be a contender for the 2010 One Maryland One Book which will focus on community. Maryland authors would be favored if the book is appropriate. Unfortunately, I was disappointed. I felt Laura Lippman was trying to extend herself beyond her more typical, mysteries featuring Tess in Baltimore, but somehow the writing style did not impress me and I was not drawn in by the characters. That said, I did want to finish the book to find out what happened, so the plot was sufficient.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    As contemporary literature, Life Sentences is actually quite good. Lippman does a wonderfully thorough job of interrogating the nature of truth, lies, and memory--from the secrets we keep, to the lies we tell ourselves, to the relative value and impact of the unvarnished truth. As mysteries go, this isn't a very satisfying one, but it makes up for it in other surprises. This would be an excellent book club book, as I imagine it would foster a great deal of interesting discussion in a group.
  • Rating: 1 out of 5 stars
    1/5
    This book has little to offer the reader. It is not suspenseful; there is not much of a mystery. There are no characters to like or cheer for. It is vague and unclear at times. It lacks focus much of the time, and is just plain uninteresting. I’m not sure what point the author is trying to make. Is it one of race relations? Is it about social structure? Maybe it’s about the court system. Is it about friendships? Familial relationships? Being unfaithful? Or just hiding infidelities. Telling the truth? Or just correctly perceiving what is true. All these topics are touched on in this tale of woe. None are really fully developed. This is a story of a writer, who, after two well-received memoirs, wrote a fiction story that was not. Now, wanting a subject for a fourth book, she turns to the story a classmate from her past who may or may not have killed her infant son and has refused to talk about his disappearance. After many pages of thinking “when will this story end,” it does get somewhat interesting at the very end. It is not enough to warrant reading the first 300 pages. Disappointing.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I'm surprised this is a mystery- there is an undercurrent of a mystery, what happened to the child of a schoolhood friend- but it is more a novel of social situation and relationships. Cassandra grew up in multicultural Baltimore and her 3 best friends in gradeschool were black. This story is about Cassandras life, her father and mother and how their divorce has shaped her life, and Cassandras search for her childhood friends and what has happened to them.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Life Sentences by Laura Lippman is the story of a successful author, Cassandra Fallows. Cassandra’s first two books, memoirs of her own life, have had great success. But when she makes an attempt to write fiction, the book is greeted with a marked lack of enthusiasm. She returns to her hometown of Baltimore to write the story she thinks will be a huge hit and a return to nonfiction. A childhood acquaintance, Calliope Jenkins, was accused of killing her baby some years ago. The baby’s body was never found, and Calliope spent 7 years in jail on contempt charges because she refused to speak. Cassandra believes that this unsolved mystery will be her next big bestseller. During the course of investigating the story, Cassandra finds that her old childhood friends have much different memories that those she had outlined in her previous books, and many are not happy to see Cassandra back in town. Along the way, Cassandra finds out things about her youth, her friendships and her parents she never knew.Life Sentences wasn’t all that compelling for me. I found the characters mostly unlikable, Cassandra seemed to be clueless and pretty darn self absorbed most of the time. Her father seemed to be more than a little narcissistic and her old friends intolerant. I did like her mother, I think more than Cassandra does. (Possibly because I’ve been known to strip and refinish $25 yard sale finds myself and I’ve spent some time under sinks changing or fixing faucets as well!) I couldn’t figure out why this grown woman would spend so much time trying to gain her “jerk” father’s approval when she had a mother like she did. Cassandra is aware enough of her father’s attitudes, i.e. “My father believed in unconditional love, but only under certain conditions.” She just seems to spend an inordinate amount of time trying to make him approve of her. I liked the idea behind the plot; the old “whodunit” made a great starting point. I just felt like it sort of fizzled. In the end, it was all pretty mundane, I’d already figured out the “who” and “why”, and felt sort of let down that my ordinary ending was right. I much prefer to be wrong when I think I’ve figured it all out.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Author Cassandra Fallows has written two best-selling memoirs and one fiction book that did not do well. When she decides to write about Calliope Jenkins a childhood friend who was jailed for seven years for refusing to divulge the whereabouts of her infant son, Cassandra reconnects with her other childhood friends Tisha, Donna and Fatima, who all have strong feelings about how Cassandra protrayed them in her first two books. This is a literary mystery that peels away past memories and perspective layer by layer until all that is left is the truth. Lippman writes so seemlessly that it would be easy to believe Cassandra's story is her own. She addresses the weighty issues of ego, racism, self-deception, memory and perspective and weaves them into the story. Highly recommend.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Laura Lippman’s Life Sentences is the story of a memoir writer, and her investigation into the circumstances of a childhood acquaintance’s accusation of murder many years before. It is full of one-sided characters, none of whom are particularly likeable, particularly the men who all engage in extra marital affairs without a second thought. The protagonist, writer Cassandra Fallows, is a fifty year old who made her jump to fame writing about her father’s infidelities and how they affected her. Despite this, during her investigation, she begins an affair with Reg, the husband of one of her former friends, with no thought about consequences. Lippman doesn’t bother to explain the appeal of the man, except for his middle-age good looks. There must be some, however, since it prevents Cassandra from reconnecting with her old friends (Reg’s wife and sister), and there is an ethical conflict of interest, since Reg was the lawyer of the woman Cassandra is investigating. Nevertheless, she jumps into bed with him after about thirty minutes’ contact and has to really work at not falling madly in love with him. Another character in the book is a former homicide detective who has quit the force and become an alcoholic because she could not solve the case. Even after twenty years, she is still obsessed with it. There is a mystery plot underneath all of the convoluted situations and shallow relationships, but it ends up being overshadowed by nonsense. All in all, this is a book I did not enjoy and would not recommend.

Book preview

Life Sentences - Laura Lippman

CHAPTER

1

WELL, THE BOOKSTORE MANAGER SAID, it is Valentine’s Day.

It’s not that bad, Cassandra wanted to say in her own defense. But she never wanted to sound peevish or disappointed. She must smile, be gracious and self-deprecating. She would emphasize how wonderfully intimate the audience was, providing her with an opportunity to talk, have a real exchange, not merely prate about herself. Besides, it wasn’t tragic, drawing thirty people on a February night in the suburbs of San Francisco. On Valentine’s Day. Most of the writers she knew would kill for thirty people under these circumstances, under any circumstances.

And there was no gain in reminding the bookseller—Beth, Betsy, Bitsy, oh dear, the name had vanished, her memory was increasingly buggy—that Cassandra had drawn almost two hundred people to this same store on this precise date four years earlier. Because that might imply she thought someone was to blame for tonight’s turnout, and Cassandra Fallows didn’t believe in blame. She was famous for it. Or had been.

She also was famous for rallying, and she did just that as she took five minutes to freshen up in the manager’s office, brushing her hair and reapplying lipstick. Her hair, her worst feature as a child, was now her best, sleek and silver, but her lips seemed thinner. She adjusted her earrings, smoothed her skirt, reminding herself of her general good fortune. She had a job she loved; she was healthy. Lucky, I am lucky. She could quit now, never write a word again, and live quite comfortably. Her first two books were annuities, more reliable than any investment.

Her third book—ah, well, that was the unloved, misshapen child she was here to exalt.

At the lectern, she launched into a talk that was already honed and automatic ten days into the tour. There was a pediatric hospital across the road from where I grew up. The audience was mostly female, over forty. She used to get more men, but then her memoirs, especially the second one, had included unsparing detail about her promiscuity, a healthy appetite that had briefly gotten out of control in her early forties. It was a long-term-care facility, where children with extremely challenging diagnoses were treated for months, for years in some cases. Was that true? She hadn’t done that much research about Kernan. The hospital had been skittish, dubious that a writer known for memoir was capable of creating fiction. Cassandra had decided to go whole hog, abandon herself to the libertine ways of a novelist. Forgo the fact-checking, the weeks in libraries, the conversations with family and friends, trying to make her memories gibe with hard, cold certainty. For the first time in her life—despite what her second husband had claimed—she made stuff up out of whole cloth. The book is an homage to The Secret Garden—in case the title doesn’t make that clear enough—and it’s set in the 1980s because that was a time when finding biological parents was still formidably difficult, almost taboo, a notion that began to lose favor in the 1990s and is increasingly out of fashion as biological parents gain more rights. It had never occurred to Cassandra that the world at large, much like the hospital, would be reluctant to accept her in this new role. The story is wholly fictional, although it’s set in a real place.

She read her favorite passage. People laughed in some odd spots.

Question time. Cassandra never minded the predictability of the Q-and-A sessions, never resented being asked the same thing over and over. It didn’t even bother her when people spoke of her father and mother and stepmother and ex-husbands as if they were characters in a novel, fictional constructs they were free to judge and psychoanalyze. But it disturbed her now when audience members wanted to pin down the real people in her third book. Was she Hannah, the watchful child who unwittingly sets a tragedy in motion? Or was she the boy in the body cast, Woodrow? Were the parents modeled on her own? They seemed so different, based on the historical record she had created. Was there a fire? An accident in the abandoned swimming pool that the family could never afford to repair?

Did your father really drive a retired Marathon cab, painted purple? asked one of the few men in the audience, who looked to be at least sixty. Retired, killing time at his wife’s side. I ask only because my father had an old DeSoto and . . .

Of course, she thought, even as she smiled and nodded. You care about the details that you can relate back to yourself. I’ve told my story, committed over a quarter of a million words to paper so far. It’s your turn. Again, she was not irked. Her audience’s need to share was to be expected. If a writer was fortunate enough to excite people’s imaginations, this was part of the bargain, especially for the memoir writer she had been and apparently would continue to be in the public’s mind, at least for now. She had told her story, and that was the cue for them to tell theirs. Given what confession had done for her soul, how could she deny it to anyone else?

Time for one last question, the store manager said, and pointed to a woman in the back. She wore a red raincoat, shiny with moisture, and a shapeless khaki hat that tied under her chin with a leather cord.

Why do you get to write the story?

Cassandra was at a loss for words.

I’m not sure I understand, she began. You mean, how do I write a novel about people who aren’t me? Or are you asking how one gets published?

No, with the other books. Did you get permission to write them?

Permission to write about my own life?

But it’s not just your life. It’s your parents, your stepmother, friends. Did you let them read it first?

No. They knew what I was doing, though. And I fact-checked as much as I could, admitted the fallibility of my memory throughout. In fact that’s a recurring theme in my work.

The woman was clearly unsatisfied with the answer. As others lined up to have their books signed, she stalked to the cash registers at the front of the store. Cassandra would have loved to dismiss her as a philistine, a troublemaker irritable because she had nothing better to do on Valentine’s Day. But she carried an armful of impressive-looking books, although Cassandra didn’t see her own spine among them. The woman was like the bad fairy at a christening. Why do I get to write the story? Because I’m a writer.

Toward the end of the line—really, thirty people on a wet, windy Valentine’s Day was downright impressive—a woman produced a battered paperback copy of Cassandra’s first book.

In-store purchases only, the manager said, and Cassandra couldn’t blame her. It was hard enough to be a bookseller these days without people bringing in their secondhand books to be signed.

Just one can’t hurt, said Cassandra, forever a child of divorce, instinctively the peacemaker.

I can’t afford many hardcovers, the woman apologized. She was one of the few young ones in the crowd and pretty, although she dressed and stood in a way that suggested she was not yet in possession of that information. Cassandra knew the type. Cassandra had been the type. Do you sleep with a lot of men? she wanted to ask her. Overeat? Drink, take drugs? Daddy issues?

To . . . ? Fountain pen poised over the title page. God, how had this ill-designed book found so many readers? It had been a relief when the publisher repackaged it, with the now de rigueur book club questions in the back and a new essay on how she had come to write the book at all, along with updated information on the principals. It had been surprisingly painful, recounting Annie’s death in that revised epilogue. She was caught off guard by how much she missed her stepmother.

Oh, you don’t have to write anything special.

I want to write whatever you want me to write.

The young woman seemed overwhelmed by this generosity. Her eyes misted and she began to stammer: "Oh—no—well, Cathleen. With a C. I—this book meant so much to me. It was as if it was my story."

This was always hard to hear, even though Cassandra understood the sentiment was a compliment, the very secret of her success. She could argue, insist on the individuality of her autobiography, deny the universality that had made it appealing to so many—or she could cash the checks and tell herself with a blithe shrug, Fuck you, Tolstoy. Apparently, even the unhappy families are all alike.

To Cathleen, she wrote in the space between the title, My Father’s Daughter, and her own name. Find your story and tell it.

Your signature is so pretty, Cathleen said. Like you. You’re actually very pretty in person.

The girl blushed, realizing what she had implied. Yet she was far from the first person to say this. Cassandra’s author photo was severe, a little cold. Men often complained about it.

You’re pretty in person, too, she told the girl, saving her with her own words. And I wouldn’t be surprised if you found there was a book in your story. You should consider telling it.

Well, I’m trying, Cathleen admitted.

Of course you are. Good luck.

When the line dispersed, Cassandra asked the bookstore manager, Do you want me to sign stock?

Oh, the manager said with great surprise, as if no one had ever sought to do this before, as if it were an innovation that Cassandra had just introduced to bookselling. Sure. Although I wouldn’t expect you to do all of them. That would be too much to ask. Perhaps that stack?

Betsy/Beth/Bitsy knew and Cassandra knew that even that stack, perhaps a fifth of the store’s order, could be returned once signed. So many things unspoken, so many unpleasant truths to be tiptoed around. Just like my childhood all over again. The book was number 23 on the Times’s extended list and it was gaining some momentum over the course of the tour. The Painted Garden was, by almost any standard, a successful literary novel. Except by the standard of the reviews, which had been uniformly sorrowful, as if a team of surgeons had gathered at Cassandra’s bedside to deliver a terminal verdict: Writing two celebrated memoirs does not mean you can write a good novel. Gleefully cruel or hostile reviews would have been easier to bear.

Still, The Painted Garden was selling, although not with the velocity expected by her new publisher, which had paid Cassandra a shocking amount of money to lure her away from the old one. Her editor was already hinting that—much as they loved, loved, loved her novel—it would be, well, fun if she wanted to return to nonfiction. Wouldn’t that be FUN? Surely, approaching fifty—not that you look your age!—she had another decade or so of life to exploit, another vital passage? She had written about being someone’s daughter and then about being someone’s wife. Two someones, in fact. Wasn’t there a book in being her?

Not that she could see. This novel had been cobbled together with a few leftovers from her life, the unused scraps, then padded by her imagination, not to mention her affectionate memories of The Secret Garden. (A girl exploring a forbidden space, a boy in a bed—why did she have to explain these allusions over and over?) On some level, she was flattered that readers wanted her, not her ideas. The problem was, she had run out of life.

BACK IN HER HOTEL ROOM, she over-ordered from room service, incapable of deciding what she wanted. The restaurant in the hotel was quite good, but she was keen to avoid it on this night set aside for lovers. Even under optimal circumstances, she had never cared for the holiday. It had defeated every man she had known, beginning with her father. When she was a little girl, she would have given anything to get a box of chocolates, even the four-candy Whitman’s Sampler, or a single rose. Instead, she could count on a generic card from the Windsor Hills Pharmacy, while her mother usually received one of those perfume-and-bath-oil sets, a dusty Christmas markdown. Her father’s excuse was that her mother’s birthday, which fell on Washington’s, came so hard on the heels of Valentine’s Day that he couldn’t possibly do both. But he executed the birthday just as poorly. Her mother’s birthday cakes, more often than not, were store-bought affairs with cherries and hatchets picked up on her father’s way home from campus. It was hard to believe, as her mother insisted, that this was a man who had wooed her with sonnets and moonlight drives through his hometown of DC, showing her monuments and relics unknown to most. Who recited Poe’s LenoreAnd, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?—in honor of her name.

One year, though, the year Cassandra turned ten, her father had made a big show of Valentine’s Day, buying mother and daughter department store cologne, Chanel No. 5 and lily of the valley, respectively, and taking them to Tio Pepe’s for dinner, where he allowed Cassandra a sip of sangria, her first taste of alcohol. Not even five months later, as millions of readers now knew, he left his wife. Left them, although, in the time-honored tradition of all decamping parents, he always denied abandoning Cassandra.

Give her father this: He had been an awfully good sport about the first book. He had read it in galleys and requested only one small change—and that was to safeguard her mother’s feelings. (He had claimed once, in a moment of self-justification, that he had never loved her mother, that he had married because he felt that a scholar, such as he aspired to be, couldn’t afford to dissipate his energies. Cassandra agreed to delete this, although she suspected it to be truer than most things her father said.) He had praised the book when it was a modest critical success, then hung on for the ride when it became a runaway bestseller in paperback. He had been enthusiastic about the forever-stalled movie version: Whenever another middle-aged actor got into trouble with the law, he would send along the mug shot as an e-mail attachment, noting cheerfully, Almost desiccated enough to play me. He had consented to interviews when she was profiled, yet never pulled focus, never sought to impress upon anyone that he was someone more than Cassandra Fallows’s father.

Lenore, by contrast, was often thin lipped with unexpressed disapproval, no matter how many times Cassandra tried to remind people of her mother’s good qualities. Everyone loves the bad boy. Come April, her father would be center stage again, and there was nothing Cassandra could do about that.

She sighed, thinking about the unavoidable trip back to Baltimore once her tour was over, the complications of dividing her time between two households, the special care and attention her mother would need to make up for her father being lionized. Did she dare stay in a hotel? No, she would have to return to the house on Hillhouse Road. Perhaps she could finally persuade her mother to put it up for sale. Physically, her mother was still more than capable of caring for the house, but that could change quickly. Cassandra had watched other friends dealing with parents in their seventies and eighties, and the declines were at once gradual and abrupt. She shouldn’t have moved away. But if she hadn’t left, she never would have started writing. The past had been on top of her in Baltimore, suffocating and omnipresent. She had needed distance, literal distance, to begin to see her life clearly enough to write about it.

She turned on the television, settling on CNN. As was her habit on the road, she would leave the television on all night, although it disrupted her sleep. But she required the noise when she traveled, like a puppy who needs an alarm clock to be reminded of its mother’s beating heart. Strange, because her town house back in Brooklyn was a quiet, hushed place and the noises one could hear—footsteps, running water—were no different from hotel sounds. But hotels scared her, perhaps for no reason greater than that she’d seen the movie Psycho in second grade. (More great parenting from Cedric Fallows: exposure to Psycho at age seven, Bonnie and Clyde when she was nine, The Godfather at age fourteen.) If the television was on, perhaps it would be presumed she was awake and therefore not the best choice for an attack.

Her room service tray banished to the hall, she slid into bed, drifting in and out of sleep against the background buzz of the headlines. She dreamed of her hometown, of the quirky house on the hill, but it was 4 A.M. before she realized that it was the news anchor who kept intoning Baltimore every twenty minutes or so, as the same set of stories spun around and around.

. . . The New Orleans case is reminiscent of one in Baltimore, more than twenty years ago, when a woman named Calliope Jenkins repeatedly took the Fifth, refusing to tell prosecutors and police the whereabouts of her missing son. She remained in jail seven years but never wavered in her statements, a very unique legal strategy now being used again. . . .

Unique doesn’t take a modifier, Cassandra thought, drifting away again. And if something is being used again, it’s clearly not unique. Then, almost as an afterthought, Besides, it’s not Kuh-lie-o-pee, like the instrument or the Muse—it’s Callie-ope, almost like Alley Oop, which is why Tisha shortened her name to Callie.

A second later, her eyes were wide open, but the story had already flashed by, along with whatever images had been provided. She had to wait through another cycle and even then, the twenty-year-old photograph—a grim-faced woman being escorted by two bailiffs—was too fleeting for Cassandra to be sure. Still, how many Baltimore women could there be with that name, about that age? Could it—was she—it must be. She knew this woman. Well, had known the girl who became this woman. A woman who clearly had done something unspeakable. Literally, to take another word that news anchors loved but seldom used correctly. To hold one’s tongue for seven years, to offer no explanation, not even the courtesy of a lie—what an unfathomable act. Yet one in character for the silent girl Cassandra had known, a girl who was desperate to deflect all attention.

This is Calliope Jenkins, a midyear transfer, the teacher had told her fourth-graders.

Callie-ope. The girl had corrected her in a soft, hesitant voice, as if she didn’t have the right to have her name pronounced correctly. Tall and rawboned, she had a pretty face, but the boys were too young to notice, and the girls were not impressed. She would have to be tested, auditioned, fitted for her role within Mrs. Bryson’s class, where the prime parts—best dressed; best dancer; best personality; best student, which happened to be Cassandra—had been filled back in third grade, when the school had opened. These were not cruel girls. But if Calliope came on too fast or tried to seize a role that they did not feel she deserved, there would be trouble. She was the new girl and the girls would decide her fate. The boys would attempt to brand her, assign a nickname—Alley Oop would be tried, in fact, but the comic strip was too old even then to have resonance. Cassandra would explain to Calliope that she was named for a Muse, as Cassandra herself had almost been, that her name was really quite elegant. But it was Tisha who essentially saved Calliope’s young life by dubbing her Callie.

That was where Cassandra’s memories of Callie started—and stopped. How could that be? For the first time, Cassandra had some empathy for the neighbors of serial killers, the people who provided the banalities about quiet men who kept to themselves. Someone she knew, someone who had probably come to her birthday parties, had grown up to commit a horrible crime, and all Cassandra could remember was that . . . she was a quiet girl. Who kept to herself.

Fatima had known her well, though, because she had once lived in the same neighborhood. And Cassandra remembered a photograph from the last-day-of-school picnic in fourth grade, the girls lined up with arms slung around one another’s necks, Callie at the edge. That photo had appeared, in fact, along with several others on the frontispiece of her first book, but only as testimony to the obliviousness of youth, Cassandra’s untroubled, happy face captured mere weeks before her father tore their family apart. Had she even mentioned Calliope in passing? Doubtful. Callie simply didn’t matter enough; she was neither goat nor golden girl. Tisha, Fatima, Donna—they had been integral to Cassandra’s first book. Quiet Callie hadn’t rated.

Yet she was the one who grew up to have the most dramatic story. A dead child. Seven years in jail, refusing to speak. Who was that person? How did you go from being Quiet Callie to a modern-day Medea?

Cassandra glanced at the clock. Almost five here, not yet eight in New York, too early to call her agent, much less her editor. She pulled on the hotel robe and went over to the desk, where her computer waited in sleep mode. She started an e-mail. The next book would be true, about her, but about something larger. It would include her trademark memories but also a new story, a counterpoint to the past. She wouldn’t track down just Callie but everyone she could remember from that era—Tisha, Donna, Fatima.

Cassandra was struck, typing, by how relatively normal their names had been, or at least uniform in spelling. Only Tisha’s name stuck out and it was short for Leticia, which might explain why she had been so quick to save Calliope with a nickname. Names today were demographic signifiers and one could infer much from them—age, class, race. Back then, names hadn’t revealed as much. Cassandra threw that idea in there, too, her fingers racing toward the future and the book she would create, even as her mind retreated, hopscotching through the past, to fourth grade, then ninth grade, back to sixth grade—her breath caught at a memory she had banished years ago, one described in the first book. What had Tisha thought about that? Had she even read My Father’s Daughter?

Yet Callie would be the central figure of this next book. She must have done what she was accused of doing. Had it been a crime of impulse? An accident? How had she hidden the body, then managed not to incriminate herself, sitting all those years in jail? Was there even a plausible alternative in which Callie’s son was not dead? Was she protecting someone?

Cassandra glanced back at the television screen, watched Callie come around again. Cassandra understood the media cycle well enough to know that Callie would disappear within a day or two, that she was a place-marker in the current story, the kind of footnote dredged up in the absence of new developments. Callie had been forgotten and would be forgotten again. Her child had been forgotten, left in this permanent limbo—not officially dead, not even officially missing, just unaccounted for, like an item on a manifest. A baby, an African-American boy, had vanished, with no explanation and yet no real urgency. His mother, almost certainly the person responsible, had defeated the authorities with silence.

That’s good, Cassandra told herself. She put that in the memo, too.

FIRST WORDS

I DIDN’T SPEAK UNTIL I was almost three years old. And then it was only because my mother almost killed me. Almost killed both of us, but she had the luxury of making the decision. I was literally just along for the ride.

My mother didn’t worry about my silence, however. It was my father, a classics professor at Johns Hopkins University, who brooded constantly. The possibility of a nonverbal child—and all the other intellectual limitations that this circumstance implied—terrified my father so much that he would not allow my mother to consult specialists. He knew himself well enough to understand that a diagnosis could change his love for me. My father believed in unconditional love, but only under certain conditions.

Besides, he was not irrational to hope that I might be keeping my own counsel for as yet undisclosed reasons. I had walked early and hit the other developmental milestones more or less on time. And I wasn’t mute. I had a three-word vocabulary: yes, no, and Ric, which is how my father, Cedric, was known. I’m not sure why I had no term for my mother. Perhaps Lenore was too subtle for my baby mouth. More likely, I didn’t recognize that my mother was a separate entity but saw her as my larger self, capable of detaching from my side in order to meet my needs. With her, I didn’t even use my three paltry words, instead pointing and grunting to indicate my desires. We should have named her Caliban instead of Cassandra, my father said.

My refusal to speak continued until almost a month before my third birthday. It had snowed, an early-spring snowstorm that was uncommonly common in Baltimore. On this particular day—a Thursday, not that my three-year-old mind could distinguish days, but I have checked the family story against newspapers from that week—my mother set out to do the marketing, as she called it then, at the old Eddie’s supermarket on Roland Avenue.

The snow had started before she set out, but the radio forecaster was insisting it would not amount to much. In the brief half hour she shopped, the snow switched to rain, then changed over to sleet, and she came out to a truly treacherous world, with cars spinning out of control up and down Roland Avenue. She decided that the main roads would be safer and calculated a roundabout route back to our apartment. But she had forgotten that Northern Parkway, while wide and accommodating, was roller-coaster steep. The car slithered into its left turn onto the parkway, announcing how dangerous her choice was, but it was too late to turn back. The unsanded road lay before her, shining with ice, a traffic light at its foot. A traffic light at which she would never be able to stop. What to do?

My pragmatic, cautious mother killed the engine, took her foot off the brake and coasted down, turning our car, a turquoise-and-brown station wagon, into a toboggan. I bobbled among the sacks of groceries, unmoored and unperturbed. The car picked up speed, more speed than my mother ever anticipated, yet not enough to get her through the intersection before the light changed to red. She closed her eyes, locked her elbows, and prayed.

When she opened her eyes, we had come to rest in the tiny front yards of the houses that lined Northern Parkway, shearing off a hydrant, which sent a plume of water into the air, the droplets freezing as they came back to earth, hitting our car like so many pebbles. But the last might be a detail that my father added, as he was the one who told this story over and over. Careful Lenore, rigid Lenore, skating down a hill with her only child in the back of the car. My mother could barely stand telling it even once.

That night, at dinner, decades later as far as my mother was concerned—after the police came, after the car was towed, after we were taken to our apartment in a fire truck, along with the groceries, not so much as an egg cracked—my father finished his characteristically long discourse on his day in the groves of academe, which my father inevitably called the groves of academe. Who had said what to whom, his warlike thrusts, as he called his responses, an allusion to Maryland’s state song. His day finally dispatched, he asked, as he always did, Anything to report from the home front?

To which, I am told, I answered, although not in a recognizable language. I babbled; I circled my pudgy baby arms wildly, trying to simulate the motion of the car. I patted my head, attempting to describe the headwear of the various blue-and yellow-suited men who had come to our rescue. I even did a credible imitation of a siren. Within twenty-four hours, my words came in, like a full set of teeth.

And from that day forward, my father always says at the end—From that day forward—he is a great one for repeating phrases, for emphasis—from that day forward, no one could ever shut you up.

From My Father’s Daughter by Cassandra Fallows, published in 1998 and now in its nineteenth printing.

BRIDGEVILLE

February 20–23

CHAPTER

2

CASSANDRA FALLOWS? WHO’S SHE WITH?

Gloria Bustamante peered at the old-fashioned pink phone memo the temp held out with a quavering hand. The girl had already been dressed down three times today and was now so jangly with nerves that she was caroming off doors and desks, dropping everything she touched, and squeaking reflexively when the phone rang. She wouldn’t last the week, an unusually hectic one to be sure, given all the calls about the Harrington case. Too bad, because she was highly

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